


Hide Everything

by spookyawards_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-03-13
Updated: 2003-03-13
Packaged: 2019-04-27 06:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14419956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookyawards_archivist/pseuds/spookyawards_archivist
Summary: Baring your soul can make you bleed.





	Hide Everything

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [Spooky Awards](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Spooky_Awards), and was moved to the AO3 as part of the Open Doors project in 2018. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are the creator and would like to claim this work, please contact me using the e-mail address on [SpookyAwards' collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/spookyawards/profile).

 

Hide Everything

## Hide Everything

### by ScamBeliever

TITLE: Hide Everything   
AUTHOR: ScamBeliever  
DISTRIBUTION STATEMENT: This has already been submitted to Gossamer in full. Anywhere else, I'd be honored. It would be great to inform me where though so I could check it out. RATING: PG for language  
**CLASSIFICATION: SA**  
KEYWORDS: MSR-ish  
SPOILER WARNING: Basically 4th season timeline - cancer arc Feedback: It would be printed in scented paper, beautifully framed, and displayed lovingly in a makeshift altar :) drop a line or two Disclaimer: No, M  & S are not mine. I'm just borrowing them. CC, you have all the fun. Share. Oh yeah, I also borrowed the song. It just reeked with M/S angst. Summary: Baring your soul can make you bleed. 

_Author's Warning_ : There may be some (or a lot) of medical oversight or lapses in here. I just want to make it clear that I'm no doctor and I was too lazy to do research. I invented the circumstances just to see how I could toy with the characters through the situations. I hope that inspite of the shortcomings, you find it in your heart to read this baby. 

Hide Everything (1/2)  
by ScamBeliever 

I'm not afraid. 

That was hard enough to even say to myself. I'm not sure if I'm over the shock yet. When the doctor told me of my cancer, my mind went dead blank. I almost snorted and asked him if he was kidding. But the good doctor was genuinely uncomfortable with his news and was unnervingly serious. That was when it finally sank in. 

I didn't cry. No, not yet. I haven't yet. I'm not looking forward to that part of the emotional onslaught I'm dreading to feel. I think I just stared at the doctor for a while, swallowing the lump in my throat. I glanced at the x-rays he had brought as if providing proof that he was telling me the truth. He might've actually thought I'd question him or something. He said that he's still waiting for the final results but he's almost certain of my condition, unfortunately. And my being a fellow doctor, he knew I'd understand. 

Understand. I just nodded numbly, not giving in to the pain that was growing in my chest. Understand what? That as much as I tried to stay true to myself and to the important people in my life, I am graciously rewarded with a rare and incurable disease. 

I wonder what I'd deserve if I had saved the world. 

God, I hate this disgusting feeling. It's selfish and a total waste of my time. 

**TIME.**

I may not have enough. What do I do now? 

Mulder. 

I have to tell him. The thought almost knocked the breath out of me. Do I have to tell him right now? I don't think I'm ready to face him with this yet. I'm still trying to face it myself. But I guess I just have to go and do it. Just lay out the information and hide. I have to get this over and done with. 

I can do this. Dear God, I hope I can. 

* * *

The rain that falls  
Splash in your heart 

"The Space Between" - Dave Matthews Band 

* * *

I'm scared s#@tless. 

This can't be happening. Un-f@# &ing-acceptable. 

I almost said the exact words the moment she broke the news. She told me her condition as if she was overviewing a report. When she said the words 'I have cancer,' it felt like someone stabbed me with a jagged knife and twisted it full circle inside my chest. I felt suddenly nauseous but somehow was able to spurt some words that seemed somewhat coherent. 

What I do remember was the way she gauged my reaction to her news. I would've admired her courage for telling me her condition but her stoicism at that point was the scariest thing I'd ever seen. It was almost inhuman. 

Almost. Her eyes belied a trace of uncertainty and probably relief when I voiced out my support, but a _trace_? I couldn't understand why she had to control her feelings. I mean, sure, she's always kept her emotions in check but SHE HAS CANCER DAMNIT! Why couldn't she bear crying for herself??? God knows she's entitled to that. She's entitled to so much more than that if she cared to know. 

It hurt when she looked away for a second to keep her composure. I wanted to take back the flowers I brought and throw it across the room. Hell, I wanted to turn the whole room upside down. 

Of course, throwing a fit in front of her would've been pathetic. It would've been more embarrassing for her than for me. But I still needed a release of some sort, so I did...at the next best place I could think of. 

Now, I don't know how I'm going to explain myself when she sees my apartment. 

I already have a nasty cut on my hand to show for it. I think I cracked my wall where I had pounded on it countless times that night, not to mention I will be using paper plates from now on. 

God, I'm so... 

Breathe...I have to breathe... 

* * *

I can't breathe. 

I just want him to leave me alone, damnit! Just one unpressured, unhovered, peaceful moment! Geez, I know I'm sick alright. It's cancer for crying out loud. It's not something I'd be able to ever forget. But I'm not lying on my deathbed yet, goddamnit! I know he means well but sometimes he's becoming absolutely ridiculous. If I see one more look from him when I cough, I swear I'd... 

I don't want to hate him. Please God, I really don't. 

Maybe I'm just too sensitive, but he's even worse when Bill gets into his "Mulder's an ass" tirade. At least, I don't see Bill often. But Mulder's always just there, right in front of my face every damn minute. It's like he has a homing device on me as if I'd try escaping him. 

God, I WISH I could. I would be going to the copier machine and he'd find some excuse to go with me. I'd be just about to get out of my apartment for work, and I'd open my front door to an unannounced Mulder-carpool. Once, I went to the ladies' room and Mulder just 'happened' to pass by. He's irritating the hell out of me that sometimes I stiffen to his usual gentlemanly gestures - his hand on the small of my back, opening doors for me, even his driving. 

It grates me that I'm treated like I'm some fragile, antique glass piece. I'm NOT going to break when I fall. I'm not. I wouldn't let myself. Isn't my self-reliance assurance enough that I can handle myself through this dreadful condition? 

This...no, HE has got to stop. 

Because if he doesn't, I don't think I can stand being around him anymore. 

* * *

You cannot quit me so quickly  
There's no hope in you for me 

"The Space Between" - Dave Matthews Band 

* * *

**SHE HAS GOT TO BE KIDDING ME.**

S#@t! No f@#*ing way. 

She didn't just draw a line. No, no. She built a f@#*ing wall. Not cement, not even brick. But an iron wall with built in censors, which triggers a defensive mechanism that will execute anybody (or ANYTHING) who would dare breach her 100 mile 'personal zone.' 

She can't possibly expect me to do absolutely nothing. It's hard enough to think that she's running around with me, chasing monsters she hardly believes in. How much more can my conscience take now that she's running off with me because of my relentless pursuit of uncovering every truth possible and she might be weakening in every tired step we take. 

I say she 'might be weakening' because I never could tell. Who could possibly see past her cold, stubborn armor? 

I see glimpses of exhaustion but they're gone at a blink of an eye and I'm always left doubtful that it was really there. If she is in any pain, at least physically (I dare not yet hope to see beyond), she hides it very well. IRRITATINGLY well. 

Yes, I know how important it is for her to remain strong and in control through this. But strength shouldn't be a form of repression, and control...well...the least we have is out of our hands. As unfair as it is, we have no choice but to deal with it. And the problem is RIGHT THERE. 

SHE'S dealing with it. By herself. Alone. 

What about ME, huh??? How am I supposed to DEAL? Act like she's _fine_? That it's nothing and all she's got is a cold that will last 'til...s#@t! I don't want to go there. I won't. 

Okay, MAYBE I might've been too careful with her. MAYBE I may have been fussing around with her _sometimes_ to the point of nagging. MAYBE I have been hovering just a bit too much. But what does she expect??? I've never been in this kind of situation before. I'm a scared man, and all my actions are out of fear. 

If she wants to be by herself for a while, fine. No problem. I'll give her enough space. If I annoy her with my fussing, all she has to do is tell me so. I'll try to stop, or at least be as subtle as possible. But she doesn't have to completely shut me out. We've worked so hard breaking every wall we had for us to be where we are right now. Shouldn't this be the perfect opportunity to test the strength of our trust, our bond? Shouldn't it??? 

Alright. Fine. I'll play along...for a while. But if things get any worse than it already is, I swear...I don't F@#*ING KNOW... 

Please, please God, let us get through this. If you grant me this, I'll believe...at least, acknowledge your existence. 

* * *

No corner you could squeeze me  
But I got all the time for you, love 

"The Space Between" - Dave Matthews Band 

* * *

Thank you God. 

FINALLY, my words got through his thick head. I thought I had to use my gun on him. Again. 

I almost did. 

Now, I can think more clearly without the annoying buzzing of an Armani-clad bug around me. Okay, that's too cruel. But it's just that too much attention from him is making me feel weaker than I've ever felt in my entire life. 

Like an invalid. 

Okay, so I'm stubborn. So what? I have to be. I need to believe that I can do this. Alone. 

I don't care if it's a self-absorbed, altogether bitchy attitude but so help me God I'll hang on to it 'til the end of my unimpressionable existence. It's the only way I can think of going on without losing myself. Even if it means sacrificing a few things. A few important and irreplaceable things. 

Like Mulder. 

My chest hurt everytime I think about how unfair I've been to him. Bile makes it's disgusting presence in my throat everytime I slap away his every proffered hand. I constantly avoid his eyes to spare myself from the overwhelming pain I will see in them as I keep myself detached and professional. 

I'm still human, just not the greatest example of one. 

I just hope that whatever happens, after all I've said and done, he could still remember me as one. 

* * *

FBI Headquarters  
J. Edgar Hoover Building  
Basement office 

'She can't possibly be human! How can she stand this...this...s#@t!' 

I'm just about to implode with the unbearable silence that has plagued us ever since the supposed 'agreement'. The tension keeps building with each passing day. Today, it's gone higher and almost tangible making me want to snatch it then burn it to smoldering ashes along with the disease that has threatened more than her existence. If anybody walks in on us right now, they'd be scurrying away as fast as possible. 

I didn't realize that I had unconsciously gripped the suffering file folder I was trying to read 'till I saw the mark my hand made when I tossed it on my desk. My teeth hurt from being ground together since the day started. 

I've been a walking contradiction ever since... erm...lately. My body is badly suffering the effects of lack of rest but I feel more alert and refuse to give away a hint exhaustion to her. My mind is weary from the unfamiliar use of actual rational thinking I've been desperately trying to persuade her to listen to. Most of all, my soul is bone tired yet relentless to keep from moving farther away from her. 

It's strange how I feel closer to death yet so aware of life's vitality and meaning when I'm shockingly faced with the reality that there's someone I would willingly give up my unworthy life for. 

I'm trying my darnedest to keep my cool here but for the first time in my life, I can't seem to hide everything behind my trained mask. It's impossible for anyone to miss what's going on my loony head EXCEPT her. No actually, she chooses to ignore it. Dismisses me like a discarded scratch paper as soon as I enter her field of vision. 

'Is my very presence so offensive Scully??? How much? As much as I take offense everytime you avoid my eyes when I address you, when you sugarcoat your test results, when you keep from cringing when I usher you and put my hand at your lower back???' 

_Snap_

"F@#*!" I stare accusingly at the broken pencil, which has just become my latest traitor. The expletive doesn't go unnoticed as she flinches at my harsh utter. Good. At least she acknowledged it. 

No. Not good. She ignores it as well. Her little fingers fly over the keyboard in a typing frenzy. 

I've got to get the hell out of here. It may be the only thing that would keep me from throwing away her goddamned laptop. 

I jump to my feet pushing my chair back with a loud screech. "I'm going to get myself another pencil." I inform the redheaded icicle sitting a few steps away. Never mind that I have a bunch of newly sharpened ones hidden in my drawer. 

For the first time that day, she actually looks at me AND addresses me. I wouldn't have been more surprised if she suddenly tells me she now believes in the existence of extraterrestrial life. 

"Here, you can use this." she says, her hand stretching towards me with a pencil dangling between two fingers. 

I stop midway of putting on my suit jacket. Actually, I stop moving altogether and just stare. Now what? She shouldn't have said anything. This is supposed to be her chance to get away from me! I thought she would be pushing me out the door. I need to get away from her as well. 

As expected, she looks away first when I hadn't taken the offered pencil. She quickly lowers it and slides it at the end of her desk, turning back to the comfort of her laptop and the joys of writing an expense report. 

'Scared of touching my dirty fingers Scully?' I restrain from darting the pencil to her head. I proceed on putting on my jacket. 

"No actually, I have to check out something too." I blurt out before I can take another breath. I'm almost through the door when she speaks with a voice laced with pending fury. 

"You could at least tell me where you're going so that I'd know the nearest possible hospital I'd be rushing to when something happens to you." Her cold eyes are trained on me, freezing me on my spot. I find myself turning towards her, unable to resist the words I've been wanting to lash out at her. 

"What's the point? You'd shoot me when you get there anyway." I say, matching her tone. 

"Would you prefer to be shot now?" 

"Sure. Why waste time and effort? Right now, you at least get a clean shot." 

"Don't tempt me." 

"Oh but Scully, you've already been tempted before." 

"But I've never been provoked." 

Before I know it, I'm in her face, spraying her with my spit. "Come on Scully, it's your f@#*ing chance! One shot and you're rid of me! And I'm GONE LIKE YOU'VE ALWAYS WANTED. OR ARE YOU TOO MUCH OF A **COWARD TO-"**

And suddenly my head rocks to the side with a brain-wracking blow on my left cheek. I stagger back a step, my mind blank for a split second. I slowly look back at her through the almost blinding pain. She looks even more shocked than I am, her hand still clenched into a fist. 

We stare at each other for god knows how long. 

Until her hand suddenly clamps to her face, covering her mouth and nose like a delayed shocked reaction. She whirls around and fumbles around her desk trying to get her handbag with one hand. Her sudden movement jolts me to finally think and move. And then she tries to slip around and get past me as fast as she could. But I reach for her, grabbing her shoulders hard enough to stop her. She struggles immediately. 

Violently. 

What the hell's going on??? 

But she continues to push me away like an angry, stubborn brat. I try to hold her, try to wait 'till she calms but she is too agitated and is able to push her head from my chest where I had crushed her. With a heavy grunt, she is finally free. And she's gone, her hurried steps echoing and fading fast in the hallway. And then silence. 

I give myself a minute to collect myself, to comprehend. I look around helplessly around the room, trying to assess any damage made. The real damage doesn't lie on the unkempt desks or on the lone desperate man left behind. The severe casualty lies on the thin, straining thread which is the only connection I have left with her. 

Then I look down on my clothes and I stop dead. A small amount of blood is smeared on my shirt. I am sure it's not mine and I forget to breathe. My chest burns with every millisecond that passes. I wish I could actually stop breathing. Forget how the respiration process works. Forget how it starts. Forget how it ends. 

Then maybe I could forget the thread that seems to have already snapped. 

* * *

Look at us spinning out in  
The madness of a roller coaster  
You know you went off like a devil  
In a church in the middle of a crowded room All we can do, my love  
Is hope we don't take this ship down 

"The Space Between" - Dave Matthews Band 

* * *

Mighty Joe's gasoline station  
& Convenient store  
Route 79  
A couple of weeks later 

I look sick. F@#* it, I AM sick. 

The face staring back at me looks vaguely familiar and it's painful to see it look so obviously ill. I've started to hate mirrors and I have tried avoiding them, but I'm left without a choice when the sink I badly need to use is right under it. I can't NOT look. So here I am, torturing myself. 

Stop it! Stop looking. 

I look down and grip both sides of the sink as the third wave of dizziness makes another nauseating round. My knees are ready to buckle but I will myself to keep steady. I curse the cold sweat, which has broken yet, again all over my face. I've been washing and drying my face for the nth time. I'm starting to run out of toilet paper. My handkerchief is already a lost cause. 

I clamp my mouth tight, fighting the bile that is threatening to make its Jordanesque comeback. If I weren't so exhausted, I would've been bawling. I don't know which one's worse. Either way, I'd be walking out of this excuse of a comfort room, looking (and smelling) terribly embarrassing. 

I barely hear the persistent rapping on the door. There's only one person who'd be rude enough to hurry a woman inside the bathroom. But I do hurry inspite of my irritation and burst through the door hoping I get it to smack right on his face, wishing to God it hits him right on the same cheek, which is just starting to heal. 

Damn, a hair's breath short. 

I walk briskly towards the scorching parking lot, not once looking at him. I can hear him shuffling his feet to catch up. 

Where the hell's the goddamn car??? My eyes start to water and I wonder if this is one of God's little pop life tests. 

For some inexplainable reason, the convenient store's parking lot is teeming with cars and I barely spot the blue Taurus at the other end. Thank God I was able to glimpse Mulder forcing it to park between two mammoth trucks before I ducked to the comfort room. 

I take a second to make sure it's the right car. 

I'm not going to cry. <I will not panic. I will not panic. I will not...>

THIS is not a parking lot. This is an auto labyrinth! I feel like a lost kid, trying to find her mommy, ready to bawl AND puke in fright. 

"You okay?" came a voice from above and behind me. I fail to keep from flinching to his sudden intervention to my growing hysteria. 

"I'm dandy. Lead on." That's the longest I could bring myself to say without throwing up all over myself. I keep my back to him, not wanting to let him see how I'm about to burst into a full-fledged tantrum. He pauses for a second, which seems like the record longest to me. I know he knows something's wrong but he'd have to drag it out from me by torture. 

Oh God. This is IT. Slow, painful death. <Breathe in, breathe out...in, out...>

Finally he brushes past me, walking briskly towards the car. My relief is overwhelming and the pain is temporarily forgotten. When we reach the Taurus, I grit my teeth and keep myself from throwing myself inside. Instead I stiffly pile in, my professional mask forcibly on. 

In between keeping from fainting, vomiting and panicking, I'm vaguely aware of Mulder's tense profile beside me as he brings the car to a low rumble. The car jolts and swerves out of the car swamp and begins racing unnecessarily across the highway. Great. I don't think I can last long enough to the next comfort room visit. 

On top of it all, Mulder sputters on about our next activity on our schedule. An autopsy. 

Splendid. The thought almost pushes me to the welcoming throes of darkness. Unconsciously, I lean my head on my hand propped up by my elbow on the window. I surrender. 

"...plus the other bodies were-" 

"Mulder, is it possible to delay the autopsies for at least a day?" I spit out, trying not to snap or whine. 

My sudden interruption doesn't startle him as much as my first confession of being remotely tired floors him. His eyes stay with me and my panic climbs even higher. You're driving, idiot! 

He senses my unease and looks responsibly back on the dull, gray, asphalt ahead. He watches me through his peripheral vision, and I'll bet his right eye is going to pop from the strain. 

"Are you sure?" he asks demandingly and I cringe at his tone. Thanks Mulder, make it easy for me. God, I'm just so tired. 

I barely nod. And with that, he actually slows the car to a respectable speed to be able to look at me longer than he needs to. 

I must've looked sincerely pathetic because he seems to have rid of his cool detached attitude and has quickly become puppy-eyed, sympathetic and deeply (AND frighteningly) concerned. My stomach churns ever more queasily. 

Not. Good. At. All. 

My eyes flutter close unwillingly and I concentrate on breathing. God, just take me home Mulder. Just let me please vomit at my own house, throw up all over my own bathroom, flood my own sink with my own stinking bile. That's all I ask. 

That is the last image in my mind as I succumb to the inviting arms of deep sleep. 

* * *

The Space Between  
The wicked lies we tell  
And hope to keep safe from the pain 

"The Space Between" - Dave Matthews Band 

* * *

Outside Dana Scully's apartment  
Half an hour later 

I should wake her up soon. 

I know I can't watch her rest in my car forever. But I'm afraid that if I wake her, she might not think of closing her eyes again. Right now, she's dead to the world. 

WRONG choice of words. I should wake her. 

Her head is turned towards me, slightly upturned to the exact angle I'm staring right down at her. I see her eyes quiver under heavy lids and I wonder what she's dreaming about. 

I should probably be waking her. 

Her whole face is a stark contrast to the dull car interior, as bright and as tranquil as the sunset. Watching her now, I can easily be in a dangerous state of denial. And sometimes through her bravery and strong independence, she blinds me from the devastating truth claiming her life. Sometimes I can forget the slow, physical assault plaguing her small body and I could pretend that nothing's terribly amiss. 

And then I would scrutinize harder and I see the frightening changes, which knocks me back to reality as hard as her jaw-dislocating jab. 

Like now. 

I should probably wake her. 

I look at her sleep-ridden face. I see the transparency of her skin and THAT is equivalent to one rib-breaking punch. I observe that her cheeks to have sunken a bit which is one more nose-breaking blow. I see the darkened skin under her eyes and it's one head-reeling upper cut. Sometimes, just looking at her is a fight on its own, the battle that I brace myself at her physical presence. 

Watching her is excruciatingly painful, looking away slashes like a blunt blade painfully leaving a deep and infected gash, yet totally avoiding her is by all means unbearable. 

So I'm here, watching. 

Looking at her is reassuring and frightening, soothing yet exhausting, elating and grounding, familiar, comforting and threatening, all at the same time. 

Looking at her and I always think of what the hell I've gotten ourselves into, as much as I shudder at the thought of not having met her at all. 

Her eyes shift for a moment, seemingly perturbed when a solitary tear creeps slowly down her cheek. For one tormenting second, the world stops from its constant rush and ignorance. 

The sight hurts more than the most sensational knockout and seems more efficient than a simultaneous gunshot on my temple and the center of my chest. I've lost a fight I've kept myself believing I had a remote chance of winning. For the moment I do lose myself at the trace of suffering that I'm not allowed to see when she's awake. Inspite of the pain, I stare at the trail of wetness on her cheek with amazement. 

Her eyes, which seemed devoid of moisture, had never filled before me. Her blue eyes of ice never melted in my presence. 

Her eyes, which are now accusingly staring, right back at me. 

I'm in deep, alien s#@t. 

**DAMNIT.**

I do what any helpless, terrified, caught in the act, obnoxious, FBI outcast would do. Pretend I'm not doing anything wrong. Pretend I've been waiting to be caught. 

I keep from flinching at her unwavering gaze. Somehow, I get this distinct feeling that Scully's trying to kill me through her penetrating glare. I feel my teeth grinding as I steel myself and try to match her eyes. 

"Why didn't you wake me?" She finally says with a voice that would scare an entire movie theater. She doesn't even bother hiding her irritation that her blue laser beams weren't able to do anything physically damaging. 

'Actually Scully, everything else is hanging on for dear life, but you don't need to know that.' 

"I didn't feel like it." Came out from the hole in my face. Very good Mulder, rake in another fight you'll probably end up badly bruised and bloody. Again. 

Her eyes suddenly turn to terrifying slits and for a moment I feel like running from the car screaming from fright. 

"Do you feel like it's time for me to get out of the car?" she asks with a voice so low, you could hear the rumble of bass in your chest. 

Enough is ENOUGH. Have you ever felt so mad at someone you could feel it consuming your entire being? You feel recklessly livid you could almost feel the pleasure of torture on that one person who could make you feel that intensely terrible way. It's incredibly strong that no other feeling exists BUT that. Your head pounds, keeping pace with your growing pulse as boiling rage flows through your nerves and you crave the release. You don't think, you only feel. You only want to hurt. To hurt in every possible way. 

Even if it's Scully. 

Especially Scully. 

I only feel one thing right now. 

Hate. 'I hate you Scully.' 

The revelation is astoundingly shocking and takes an ungodly moment to sink in. Goddamnit! When had things gone so f@#*ing wrong! 

_Get the hell out of the car!_ screams a warning in my still somehow functioning head. 

If I don't get out of this car as soon as possible, I might regret the move I'm tempted to make with her so close. So I twist around the seat so hard, I had to keep from cursing at the sudden snap of my spine. 

And I'm out! Good. Now MOVE. 

I emphasize my exit with a satisfying slam of my car door making me feel as intimidating as a 12-year-old bully does over a parkful of pre-schoolers. 

_Move you overgrown sniveler._

I open the trunk, get her bags (close the lid with, of course, another bang) and practically make a run for her building. I'm in the zone and it takes me less than 5 seconds. I bet I'll be 5 miles away from her in 10 minutes. 

I hardly hear Scully's door close (which I'm sure rivaled my own) as I am faced with the dilemma taking the stairs or the elevator, which has slowed my adrenaline. Elevator means stuck with a 5-foot ice bitch. Decision made, I swing the bags over my shoulder and head for the stairs. 

A minute later, I'm fishing for my duplicate key in my pocket. Waiting for her crossed my mind but as I've already mentioned, I'm in the zone. No one can stop me right at this moment. I've pissed her off already anyway, why not piss her off all the way through? 

With that logical and very mature reasoning, I don't hesitate opening her apartment door without her permission. Springing it wide-open feeds my childish pleasure of pushing one of Scully's most guarded buttons - privacy. 

'I'm hardly breaking and entering really', I lamely reason as I hear her heels clacking at the end of the hall. 

And I wait for the right moment to push her button even _harder_. I make sure she sees me when I actually get _inside_ her apartment without consideration. 

When had I started to degenerate emotionally? 

That thought flickers around my mind somewhere through my version of a tantrum. I push the annoying thought aside and unceremoniously drop the bags in the middle of the floor. The bags make a satisfying, heavy, double thud and I quickly swing around to trace my steps back to sanity. Far away from Scully. 

I barely see her slumping at her doorway and breathing heavily. 

I bite back a comment about her incapable short legs since it would just risk breaking my rhythm. So, I swiftly brush past her and cockily walk down the hall. A couple of seconds later, I hear her front door slam shut. Finally, I breathe easily with long even breaths. 

As I reach the stairs, I suddenly realize that I seem to have left something. Something important. 

Scully's notes. 

Un-f@#*ng-believable. My mind and my body skid to a sudden halt, my rhythm finally broken. I can feel the fast pace of my rage slowly drift to growing anxiety and dread. Dreading the actual confrontation, anxious for the confrontation to be done. 

I'm royally, undoubtedly f@#*ed. 

I HAVE to get back there. I NEED to. Because without her notes, without the distraction of grueling work, I'd be left with a primetime showing of Scully related guilt reruns. And God knows I need a break from that. 

My face contorts to an exaggerated grimace as I reluctantly turn around. My feet feel like lead, noisily dragging my heels as I face the dreaded front door all too quickly. Here goes... 

I rap loudly on the door as I call her name then wait. Nothing. 

I pound harder, suddenly impatient to get it over and done with. Still nothing. This is becoming ridiculous, she can't keep ignoring my incessant pounding, and she would be too embarrassed for her neighbors. 

"SCULLEEE-" _click_

Whoops. I catch myself as I lurch forward, my hand on the knob and my key magically through it. I hurriedly retrieve it before Scully (or anybody else) sees me. 

And the difference if she finds me once again unwelcome in her apartment would be??? 

I quickly stuff my key inside my pocket while I zero in on my intended target. Scully's bags are still scattered on the floor, exactly the way I had left them. She's not as neat as I always thought she is. Maybe she only wants to be seen as prim and proper by other people, but is really unkempt and careless deep down. 

I stop my ridiculous digression and without hesitation reach for her bags. I rifle through her suitcase crumpling a few pages of some dull medical subscription. Where the heck are her notes? 

Med. mags, motel receipts, pamphlets, journal  <ooh!>, NOTEBOOK...here it is! Finally. I stand up quickly, triumphantly holding high Scully's notes like I've won MVP of the Year. Before I get to imagining a stadium filled crowd on their feet creating a pandemonium for my achievement, my contrasting imagination and my actual surroundings immediately strike me. 

The whole apartment is deafeningly silent. 

I look around and my eyes quickly catch sight of bathroom door that is slightly ajar. I contemplate if I should forego any further investigation. There is a high chance I would be de-balled if I (accidentally) see a less than decent view of my partner. On the other hand, the view from my standpoint looks like a classic scene from any horror movie. The mysterious effect of a slightly open bathroom door brings a variety of horrific images. 

Deadly images. 

It takes me less than a second to reach it. 

No sound is coming from inside. No running water. No nothing. I push the door wide open and I brace myself for the de-balling. 

<OhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygodOhmygod>

My mind struggles as raging thoughts run through my head. The cacophony makes my blood aggressively pound through my ears as my pulse accelerates, keeping pace with my panic. My chest grows tight and I swallow the sob that is working its way up my throat. 

Scully is lying on the floor right below the sink in an ungraceful position. Her skin almost blue, are shining with cold sweat and her brilliant hair spread like a fan on the white tile. Her head is lolled to the side, her eyes glued shut. Indiscreetly covering her is her crumpled clothing, her shirt partly untucked from her skirt which has hiked a bit too high. I ignore the reeking contents in the sink, oblivious to the stench that would rob any human the privilege of fresh air. I only see my tiny partner, lying on the cold bathroom tiles. 

<Pulse, goddamnit! Get the pulse!>

I lunge for her practically collapsing on top of her body, grabbing her wrist all too tightly. 

<F@#*! I don't feel it! Where is it???!!!>

I reach for her neck and press my fingers deeply. 

<THERE!>

I fumble, panic, and breathe a little then finally proceed to attend to her breathing. Adjusting her head and neck carefully, I pry open her lips with too shaken hands. 

<Not now. It's not the time to lose it!>

I lean forward to directly level my ear above her open mouth. Nothing. Not a wisp of breath. I feel like I'm going to lose my own. 

<Now is not the time, a-hole!>

But somehow I manage to detach myself for a few but LONG seconds and provide air for her. 

Breathe. Exhale. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Breathe. Exhale. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Breathe. Exhale. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Breathe. Exhale. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. 

<Breathe, Scully, breathe!>

Breathe. Exhale. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Breathe. Exhale. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Breathe. Exhale. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. 

In every valuable millisecond, every ineffective pump, every non-responsive moment, I feel my chest constrict tighter and tighter. My own breathing start to come in painful gasps. My vision starts to blur. I blink furiously and realize that involuntary tears has caused it. 

<F@#*! NotnowNotnowNotnowNotnowNotnowNotnowNotnow!>

Breathe. Exhale. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Breathe. Exhale. One-one thousand. Two-one thousand. Three-one thousand. Breathe. Ex - 

And then a wisp of air mixes with mine. I stop, my still gaping mouth directly above hers waiting for another one. THERE. A hitch and a release. 

And another one. And another. 

I rest my forehead on hers for a few moments, savoring the tickle of her not so pleasant breath against my skin and allowing my heart to steady into an even rhythm. 

But although she's already breathing, Scully still hasn't opened her eyes. Somewhere in my small relief and still state of shock, I grab my cellphone to call 911. I hastily bark the address and my situation to an all too calm operator, which only makes me more agitated. Before she finishes "we're on our way," I disconnect and dial for Skinner. The call goes practically the same way, only I deliver my lines with a slightly lower volume. I also disconnect before his assurance to meet me in the hospital. 

I quickly bring back my attention to Scully, dropping hard on my knees. I desperately try to figure out how to get her outside her bathroom. My hands do not stay on one decided place, as I'm unsure on how to handle her. Somehow I manage to move around the cramped bathroom and put my arms under her. The walls seem to squeeze closer, unmercifully suffocating me. 

<C'mon Scully, please wake up.>

<You never fall Scully. _I_ do, remember? >

<God, why are you so light???>

<F@#* it Scully, you shouldn't have come with me on the field!>

<Serves you right for pushing yourself. What were you trying to prove???>

<WHAT AM I SAYING? I didn't mean that, I'm sorry...>

<Where the hell's the f@#*ing couch?!>

Finding it, I sit down as slowly as I can as I cradle Scully on my lap. I shift ever so slightly, settling Scully's head on one cushioned arm. I smooth away some wet clumps of darkened red hair plastered on her face. 

My chest deflates as I expel the breath that I didn't know I had been holding. I check her pulse again, not pressing too deeply this time. 

<Still there. Still faint. Still alive.>

Like a thunderbolt paralyzing my entire body, the image of Scully slumped heavily on the doorframe replays in my mind. 

<Stupid sonofa...>

The weight of the whole, f@#*ed up world crashes down on my shoulders, burying me alive. I hold Scully tighter, seeking absolution by trying ineffectively to absorb her pain. I pray for it to leave her and fire its wrath upon me, wishing it hurt more than I already feel. 

<You selfish, ignorant, obnoxious, WORTHless, UNFORGIVABLE...>

God, everything seems to hurt. Good. I'm more than willing to share the pain. 

I feel restless. Inside, I'm screaming at the top of my lungs and I'm inches away from crossing the line to absolute insanity. 

Yet I'm listless. I'm numb. I'm weak. 

I think I'm dying. 

* * *

Will I hold you again?  
Will I hold... 

"The Space Between" - Dave Matthews Band 

* * *

Georgetown Memorial Hospital  
Cancer Ward  
4 hours later 

The first thing that hits me is the pain. It feels like being hit by a boulder and you realize you've miraculously managed to live while your head is still under it. You wish you'd rather be dead. But then you somewhat gradually get used to the pain, and you just feel...stoned. 

I faintly hear an annoying beep and I desperately want to kill the noise. I drag myself painfully to consciousness for that sole purpose. After a few tight blinks, I find a pair of concerned eyes, intensely studying mine. His tense face softens a bit, his mouth extending its line a bit longer. I'm not sure what to make of that expression. 

I guess that's how far a smile by Skinner would go. 

Since it doesn't look like one, I don't offer my own. I nod slightly then look around, taking in my surroundings. Damn. The beeping's from the heart monitor. 

When I turn to look back at the Asst. Director, he seems caught in the middle of an inner battle of sorts. I watch him warily, waiting for him to make up his mind. 

"Why didn't you inform us of your treatment?" he finally said with a stern but quiet tone. 

Ohh... 

In my current state, I couldn't possibly come up with a lie much less deliver it convincingly, so I just slightly avert my eyes from his, which expectedly garners another veiled accusation. 

"You knew better than to go out on the field, a DAY after a treatment. If the case was that important, which I think wasn't, it still could've waited a couple more days." 

You tell that to Mulder. See if he can wait that long. 

"Agent Scully, I didn't think I'd have to tell you that you should take care of yourself first before anything else." 

Although he spoke with an even and low voice, his tone couldn't quite stray from condescending, faintly tinged with disbelief. 

What I hear is: "What the hell were you thinking??? Were you trying to kill yourself out there? If you were, kill yourself in your own damn time!" 

Don't worry sir, you don't have to wait long. 

Skinner looks expectantly at me for a defense, a protest, maybe even hoping for an admittance to my stupidity. Instead, I do what any cold, hardass, caught in the act, FBI snob, representing half of the x-files spook force. I go for the stare down and pray he doesn't push any further. 

I see the Asst. Director actually narrow his eyes to slits as if to prepare for the eyeball battle. After a full minute, probably realizing he won't win, he looks away and draws a heavy breath, his fingers rubbing his forehead slowly. He looks as worn-out as I am. 

You see, I have my own way of getting on Skinner's nerves. Mulder's irresponsible ditching for a lead that amazingly ends in the Arctic, returning after a week with a rambling justification of his actions without the slightest courtesy for our Superior, would have Skinner biting his head off. I, on the other hand, keep my stony composure as I stubbornly (or stupidly) cover Mulder's back and face Skinner with silent defiance, which would have him quietly raving furiously of exasperation. 

Like now. 

I don't know which is bothering Skinner more, that I actually decided to be incredibly stupid on my own accord or that this is too personal for his involvement. Whichever it is, I think it's safe to assume that I'm way ahead of Mulder in our "Skinner pissing contest". 

Before I let Skinner out the door, I tentatively ask him the nagging question I've been having since I became conscious. 

"Has Mulder been informed?" I silently curse myself on how meek and soft my voice sound, like a child asking for her mommy. Mulder is most definitely not my mother. 

Skinner has a strange expression on his face and I get a feeling I won't like his answer. It takes him a suspenseful moment before he speaks. 

"Agent Scully, he was the one who brought you here." He gauges my reaction, again choosing his next words. 

"I ordered him half an hour ago to rest because he has been standing guard since you were admitted. We both know he will disobey my orders and would only be gone long enough to change. Frankly, he looks worse than you do." With that, he gives a slight nod of farewell and relieves himself from baby-sit duty. 

I'm left staring at the closed door unable to indulge in one emotion at a time. I'm caught under a torrent of feelings deeply rooted on guilt. My initial confusion gradually makes way for shame, embarrassment, anger and hate to take over. I'm embarrassed of my reckless actions and ashamed of allowing myself so shamefully unprofessional. 

I don't think I can face Mulder with my wounds wide open for him to blatantly scrutinize and then watch him try to lick them for me. 

Yes. Deep down, the bitch in me still hates him for being my savior. Eventhough how sincere or noble, I can't help resenting him for being there. My rescuer. My protector. My hero. 

My mind slips slowly from the working drugs but God forbid, I don't forget to wallow on my self-hatred. For being so weak that I allowed stubborn pride to override rational thinking, which has only resulted to compromising my health. My health which some people are more than willing to offer their leg and arm for me to keep. 

The strong drugs are sneaking their way and I welcome it to numb my body and hopefully everything else to keep the emotional tide from totally overwhelming me. 

As my lids are tugged by persistent drugs, I see a silhouette of a person lurking behind the door about to enter. 

I hope it isn't Mulder. 

* * *

The Space Between  
What's wrong and right  
Is where you'll find me hiding, waiting for you 

"The Space Between" - Dave Matthews Band 

* * *

My stomach mercilessly wakes me from my deep slumber. I'm dazed and slowly awake, the combination of the drugs making use of my body as their battlefield. Every inch of my skin is covered with sweat. Everything under it seems to be waging war. My insides feel like they're self-destructing part by painful part. 

I open my eyes regretting it instantly as the effort is almost unbearable but the pain successfully pushes me wide awake. 

<Oh my god! I can't see!>

I blink frantically, my heart at my throat until my eyes adjust to the darkness and I see the sleeping form of my partner on a cushioned bench a foot away from the hospital bed. I've never felt so relieved and so frightened to see him. 

Oh god, he's here. 

I contemplate on not moving, pretend to still be unconscious in the expense of keeping a pool of foul contents in my mouth. But the beating of the treatment doing in its own healing ways are punching my gut and wracking my head. A small whimper escapes my lips and I bite my tongue to secure my mouth shut. 

It's hopeless. I have to make a run for it. 

That is IF I even have the strength to stand. 

I try to ease myself off the bed but I abruptly stop midway because the whole world starts to spin madly. My stomach churns even more and the effort leaves me breathing shallow, heavy breaths. After a few moments of reorienting, I place my feet tentatively on the floor. I let go of the bed sheets I've been gripping, knowing it's utterly useless in helping me keep steady. I need something firm to push myself for momentum because walking is not an option. I wouldn't make it if I take it slow. 

Mustering all the strength and nerve I could gather, I take my first step. 

But then everything spins wildly around me, the darkness threatening to swallow me completely while the ground trembles under my feet. Through the chaos, I instantly grab for the bed to hold onto before my legs completely give. 

Suddenly, strong arms envelope me. A firm body steadies me and I'm being carefully led to my Holy Grail. The next thing I know I'm coughing up disgusting material that I don't remember taking at all. Heave for heave I pray for it to stop at the same time wondering angrily why it won't since I know there's nothing left to expel. Subsiding tremors follow, making sure every bit of bile has been wrung out. 

Exhausted, I finally rest my forehead on the rim of the toilet seat totally wasted. Thank god it's over. My eyes sting either from lingering pain or utmost gratitude for ending the torment. 

And then I feel my head being lifted from the seat, a warm hand carefully holding my neck. The cold, wet towel brushing my face is nothing short of heaven. I let it absorb the stench and grime, savoring it's cleansing fibers tickling my skin. 

All too soon it's gone but then I feel my right arm being paid the same amount of attention. 

"Why didn't you wake me?" His voice cut through the sweet sensation of soothing cotton smoothly caressing my arm. I look at him for the first time, hearing the danger in his tone and I flinch away from his grasp. Mulder grabs my arm back and continues his ministrations. Although I'm well aware of his simmering anger, his touch does not harden, only continues carefully and gently. 

I take in his expression, weighing the extent of his fury. His eyes have yet to level themselves directly on mine. His jaw is rigidly set and a vein twitches constantly near it. 

I'm in deep, Morley crap. 

I squirm away from him trying to place as much distance as a cubicle sized hospital bathroom would allow. 

"You look like hell, Mulder." 

"You don't look any better, Scully." He deadpans. 

"Ha-have you called my mother?" 

"Yes. She'll be arriving from San Diego at noon. She'll be coming straight from the airport AND you haven't answered my question." That's when his eyes direct their heavy scrutiny on me. 

"Do you know what happened?" The weight of that question gives him pause. 

"Yes, I know." He answers through gritting teeth. 

"How did you find me?" 

"I came back because I needed your notes and I saw- " 

"Oh, you needed my notes? How convenient." 

Right. That is so lame. 

"What?! Yes I NEEDED you notes and you're damn lucky I came back soon enough or I wouldn't have found you! And DAMNIT, ANSWER MY **QUESTION!"**

His voice reverberates thunderously, bouncing off the bathroom walls. I jump when he grabs my arm, his fingers digging my skin. Instantly, I am on the defensive and I refuse to be intimidated. I steadily look back at his blazing hazels, trying to swallow down my fear. 

"I didn't feel like it." 

I don't know how I can still find the strength to push Mulder to the limit while I lay helplessly after reversing digestion. 

"F@#* you." Is his simple but claw sharp answer and it causes my walls to harden into steel. 

"If I even had the strength Mulder, I don't think I'd be up for a pity lay." 

His face becomes even more blank than usual and I know that he is in shock. Slowly, he lets go of my arm and slumps on the opposite wall facing me, needing its support. His bent legs carelessly trapping me between them making me feel more suffocated than ever. He hangs his head like an exhausted soldier ready to surrender. 

For the first time in our four years of partnership, I have rendered him speechless. Somehow, I don't feel the sweet taste of victory. 

Surprise, surprise. I'm still human after all. 

We stay motionless for a while and I wonder if I can fall asleep here. He finally breaks the silence only to shatter it forcefully, sharp glass flying in every direction. 

"You've got to stop this Scully." He whispers hoarsely, every word cutting through me. 

"You're making it harder than it already is. You're breaking...it's breaking us both." 

Both of us? Maybe it's only breaking you Mulder. Only you. 

"I'll stop, if you stop." 

His head snaps up and I keep from cringing at the sound of his neck pop. 

"Stop what?" His voice is a challenge, poised to defend. 

Can I say it? Should I? 

"Stop treating me like...like I'm fragile. Stop treating me like a child, like an innocent that needs protection. Stop treating me like an X-File you need to profile, to wheedle the elusive truth from and to be heavily guarded lest I escape. Stop treating me like I'm already dead, like my heart will stop at every bogus theory you think of, like I'm wasting away my precious time chasing cases I actually feel damn rewarding after closing and finally submitting our thoroughly argued report." 

I pause before I drop the biggest bomb of all. 

"Stop treating me like your sister." The words come out barely audible but I might as well have screamed it to his ear. There's no difference. 

If I had delivered it on the silverscreen, the last sentence would've been accompanied by a crash of piano keys, the low, haunting sound of a broken piece by violins or one heavy boom of a drum. The impact of those words on Mulder is a suspense-thriller writer's dream. 

I never wanted to say it. I never planned to. Now that I've voiced it out, I wish I hadn't. 

Every word hurt, launching a thousand boomerangs I can't possibly escape. Mulder is frozen numb by my revelation. His glazed eyes are fixated on me yet they don't seem to see me. I grope for words to explain, to somehow make things right, if that's even remotely possible. 

I think I just might've pushed too far. 

"Mulder...don't you see? I'm not...something to resolve." 

Boy, I'm patching this up real nice. But I can't seem to stop myself. 

"You...O god...you can't make what you think you did wrong with what happened to your sister, right through me. I refuse to be another one of your quest. I'm not-" 

"I know you're not my sister!" He cuts me off abruptly and I'm momentarily taken aback. 

"You don't WANT to admit that I'm right." I insist. Please don't do this Mulder. This is already too hard, too damn tiring. 

"I don't treat you like my sister." He answers firmly, rather stubbornly but I catch a slight quiver in his voice, which saddens me because it just goes to show that I might actually be right. I know that I have to somehow shake him off his blinding denial. 

"Then give me one valid, irrefutable proof that I'm way off the mark here, Mulder. Just one." My last two words lack the conviction of the previous ones. It comes out broken, exhausted. The pounding in my head has returned and I'm worn out from the argument. I close my eyes, waiting for him to admit defeat. 

"I can never treat you like Samantha, Scully because...it didn't break me half as much it's breaking me now." 

Wha-What did he say? 

* * *

We're strange allies  
With warring hearts... 

"The Space Between" - Dave Matthews Band 

* * *

I said what? 

O god. O god almighty. I said it. 

I said it out loud. 

O my god! I said that out loud??? 

I'm more than dumbstruck than I was when she put her wrongly placed foot down just a minute ago. And the way she's looking at me now doesn't make things any better. She has this confused sort of pained expression as if she's about to hurl herself yet again on the toilet. She looks like she's going to pass out any minute. I think I am. 

My heart feels like it's inflating and trying to burst free from my chest. Her reaction only proves my darkest suspicions. The unspoken rejection is not much of a suprise but nonetheless, having the suspicion turn to undeniable fact is heartbreaking. Through the blur of prickling, unshed tears, I glimpse my small partner lean slightly to her left, her body slowly going limp. She needs to get back to bed. 

As much as I truly hate myself for it, despite the sting of her words and the bloodshed caused by the unspoken ones, nothing matters to me right now but that she rests and hurt no more. Sad and pathetic it may seem, that is what concerns me right now. 

I take a deep breath, ignore personal pain, and resume my self-appointed duty to take care of her. I slowly rise to a crouch, my arms reaching for hers, ready to faithfully serve. Until they are slapped away by one venomous word that shatters my already thinning patience. 

"Don't." 

She squirms away from my hovering hands and half-enveloping arms, trying as best as she can not to come in contact with my skin. It's hard not to take offense with such a friendly reaction and it triggers my rage filling my nerves within a second. 

I abruptly stand up, surprising her enough to gasp and jump back. 

What is it with her goddamn walls??? Scully seems to hold on to the shallowest meaning of independence. Why is she embracing solitude like it means more than anything in the world? It blinds her with the fact that everything that is hers - her belief, her mind, her judgement, and especially her suffering - is for hers alone to live by and not slightly expecting anyone to share them with or unburden them to. 

But no matter how much she secludes herself, there is a limit to everything. Things will have to break free at some point. And whether she likes it or not, in the end, there'll be no place to hide. And no matter what, I'll be there when she finally comes out. 

THIS is what she needs to know. 

I guess, I will have to make it hurt for her to understand. 

I amble out of the stifling bathroom, my feet so heavy that I might as well have chained iron balls at my ankles. I drag myself 'till I reach the edge of the bed. Drawing a heavy breath, I turn around to face her. 

She still eyes me with steely countenance but now laden with wariness and anticipation. Before I speak, I erect my own walls to cloak myself from the pain of watching her crumble. 

"Then get your ass over here yourself." 

Her eyes widen with shock, my sharp command jarring her. It's not the actual words, which I had rudely flung at her that shocks her, although it's reason enough for her to be insanely mad. It's the challenge being posed that dawns to her which silences any automatic retort. 

She hangs her head a minute and it almost seems like I've won too soon. But then she glances to her left and slowly shifts her body. I hold my breath as Scully inches to a crouch...and then stops. Beads of sweat start to gleam on her transparent skin. She winces at the effort, her shaking left hand gripping the toilet seat. She pushes herself to stand and her legs barely sustain her weight. Her hand on the toilet seat doesn't look like it can lend sufficient support to lift herself. 

My walls thicken when she gropes for the doorway. Her hands are uncharacteristically frantic and I swallow a hitch in my throat. Even how hard and how high I keep building my walls, I can't bear watching anymore. I tear my gaze from her slumping form and look at the empty space past the window. I breathe in finally, only to help push back the clog building in my throat. 

There's a limit to everything. 

I think I've just reached mine. 

When I look back at Scully, she is still leaning heavily on the doorframe. It's like watching the dead trying vainly to keep its body alive. 

She hasn't moved. She is still leaning. Leaning and still. 

So still. 

And with that, my walls give and come crashing around me. Brick, rock, glass and steel pound heavily on my heart and my soul. 

I sidestep the debris, squint through the haze and come get her. 

When I curl my arm around her back and reach for the back of her knees, no protest, no stinging words, no gesture of surrender, do I get from her. She doesn't even put her arm around my neck to easily support herself while being carried. She is limp and lifeless as I carry her effortlessly towards the bed. 

When I reach it, she barely whispers a plea. I almost lose my bearings when I hear her speak. 

"Put me down right here, Mulder." 

My name was barely audible. Her voice was soft and weary, fearful and uncertain, resigned and breaking. She has yet to cry but the tears were in her voice. Unmistakable. I can still hear it. 

I'll be damned if I don't oblige. 

So I lower her, slowly slipping from my arms and let her sit at the edge of the bed. I try to get a glimpse of her face but she has lowered it purposely to hide. I stand in front of her, unable to create space between us, her lowered head inches from my waist. 

Look at me Scully. 

But of course, she doesn't and I finally break away to give her room. My closeness is probably suffocating her and I think I've done enough damage. I walk around the bed to the other side not taking my eyes off her. She is slightly facing the side and I continue to watch her slight profile. 

She is so still that I have to remind myself she's still breathing and had just spoken to me. 

And then I see something fall. 

In the darkness with only the faint light from the bathroom to help in discerning which is three-dimensional and which is not, I'm not sure if I saw anything at all. But then another glint from the light slices through the air as well as my heart before it settles down on her lap. 

O my god. 

I cross the bed, not able to restrain myself any longer. With just the slightest hesitation, I wrap my body around her from behind. My arms snake alongside hers as I reach for and completely enfold my hands around hers. My thighs encase hers, my legs firmly settling on the floor while her shorter ones hang in between. Had I not just intentionally hurt her a while ago, I would've been overjoyed by this closeness. But the wetness that now pelts softly on my skin can't warm a sorrowful heart. Especially when it is being held by a dying woman. 

This is how Scully cries. So silent. So quiet. 

There are no hitches, sniffles, moans and whimpers. Just the slow trickle of tears that you're uncertain if they're going to fade or pour steadily as the minutes pass. 

I touch my lips to her copper hair and silently whisper my vow, not caring if she does or doesn't hear it. I bite back a tender warning because I'm afraid it would be too much for her to accept. 

That this is just the beginning. That there are innumerable and unfathomable things that will still follow the events that has happened today. That I can't assure her it won't surpass the pain she has gone through today. 

And no matter how much she persists and resist, I will keep reminding her that she has nothing left to hide from me. 

**END**

* * *

The Space Between  
Your heart and mine  
Is the space we'll fill with time  
The Space Between... 

"The Space Between" - Dave Matthews Band 

* * *

That's all folks! 

Shigger, thanks for being a great sound board for my ideas. Your patience is unbelievable. I'm eternally grateful for your taking time out from your tight schedule to take a look at my written nonsense. You're simply the best. 

Thank you for letting me share a piece of my X-Files insanity. :)   
  


#### If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to ScamBeliever


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